


oh, hell yes, i'm a nervous wreck.

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Van Days, joe being a fool, pete being a bigger one, wentzman forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:45:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Joe's trying to get the shit kicked out of him.</p><p>Or,</p><p>Joe gets hurt too often and Pete's bad at expressing himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, hell yes, i'm a nervous wreck.

**Author's Note:**

> for bel and ruth because without you i would have absolutely no motivation to write fic.

It's not that Joe's trying to get the shit kicked out of him.

 

It's just that Pete and Dirty dare him to dive into the dumpster, and he's kind of loath to say no to Pete, and on top of that he kind of wants to know what he's going to find in there, and plus, what could go wrong?

 

A lot, apparently, since whatever that thing is that scratched him apparently gave him fucking tetanus, and so now he's in the hospital, humiliatingly aware that he's eighteen, and still on his mom's health insurance while he sits on the bed and taps his foot impatiently. The doctor's trying to speed this up, he really is, but the number of shots he needs to get is fucking ridiculous, and even though he's kind of thanking god for the fact that Andy and Patrick noticed how infected his calf was, since he wasn't going to, he's  being reminded every minute how much he fucking hates this.

 

But Pete sits curled up next to him, holds his hand, because Joe's still freaked out by needles, and stands with his arms wrapped securely around his waist at home while he washes his hands over, and over, and over in the sink, until they don't smell like a hospital anymore. And when he's done, when his hands are pink and sore but clean, Pete drags him out of the bathroom and into bed, curling around him, legs and arms thorn haphazardly all over the place like the fucking octopus that he is, but quietly, carefully avoiding his right calf.

 

In the morning, Joe wakes up, and Pete is staring down at him, gnawing on his lip that way he only does when he's thinking too fucking hard about something, and so Joe leans up and kisses him until he stops, and that's that.

 

-0-

 

They get jumped by a couple of guys on their way back to the venue from a corner store in Texas, and Joe comes out with a black eye, a split lip, and a bad mood. Andy's got it worse, his knuckles are pretty fucked up and he's got a wicked bloody nose that Joe ended up having to staunch with his shirt, but the assholes who'd started it are all on the ground, so Joe considers it a win. An angry, hateful win, but a win nonetheless.

 

And the worst part is that they weren't doing anything. It wasn't Pete with him, Pete, who sticks his hand in Joe's back pocket and presses him up against any available surface regardless of where they are and who they're gonna piss off. No. It was Andy. Fucking Andy, and all they'd done was walk in, grab a pack of smokes and a fucking gross vegan chocolate bar and then leave, laughing because Joe had said something funny, he doesn't even remember what.

 

What he remembers is wrapping one arm around Andy's shoulder, and Andy shaking his head and patting his cheek, and Joe had said something like "Come on, you know you fucking love me" to which Andy had replied "Always, babycakes" and Joe had grinned like an idiot because sometimes when you're happy and with people you love you just get happy, and then there had been a fist connecting with his stomach, and Andy hadn't been next to him, anymore.

 

And honestly, they call Andy the Animal for a reason, so by the end of it these guys, who'd muttered 'fag' under their breaths and looked at them like they were something disgusting you'd find on the bottom of your shoe, were on the ground in a bloody heap. Andy had spat in one of their faces, blood and saliva mixing into something really very aerodynamic and kicked him one last time before turning around and wrapping one arm firmly around Joe's waist, and steering him back toward the van. He's moving all precise and controlled, and Joe knows this Andy, the one that only comes out when someone's really fucking fucked it up, because Andy's the calm one, Joe's supposed to be the crazy one, but right now, Andy's anything but calm.

 

They get back and Pete's sitting on the roof with Patrick, laughing in the cold and looking so fucking beautiful under the yellow street light. He catches sight of them, though, and his grin fades faster than Joe's ever seen it before, and before he knows it Pete's slid off the top of the van and is running forward, and Joe didn't even realize Andy was supporting his weight until Pete's taking it, wrapping one arm around his back while his other hand cradles Joe's face, eyes flicking over him and assessing the damage while Andy shuffles toward where Patrick is now standing by the wheel well, waiting for him with open arms. Joe watches Andy fall into Patrick, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, and then lets his gaze wander back to Pete, who's talking now, angry and tender all at the same time while his fingers dance over Joe's cheeks.

 

"What the fuck happened? Who the fuck did it, I swear to god, Troh--" Joe shakes his head and cuts him off.

 

"Andy got them." He growls, because yeah, it's over, but he's still fucking pissed. "They're not going anywhere anytime soon."

 

Pete turns to look at Andy, who's now leaning fully on Patrick, still breathing hard while Patrick strokes his hair like he's a wounded animal, which, fair.

 

He turns back and kisses Joe, hard, ignoring the way that Joe hisses when his busted lip starts oozing blood again, not that he really cares. Pete kisses him like he’s praying for something, Joe doesn’t know what.

 

When they get back on the road there's a little quiet arguing between Pete and Patrick, because Andy's too fucked up to drive, and Joe's eye is so swollen he can barely see out of it. Eventually it ends up with Andy curled up in the back seat with Patrick's arms around his waist, holding him close from behind, and Joe and Pete in the front, with Joe lying across the center console so he can rest his head on Pete's hip while Pete drives.

It's hard to ignore the way Pete keeps looking down at him, like he's scared Joe will disappear, and when he falls asleep it's with Pete's hand buried in his hair like an anchor.

 

 

-0-

 

Afterward, Joe can honestly say he doesn't remember what happened.

 

He knows it was a good show. A really fucking good show.

 

He knows the mosh started right around the end of Sugar, and before Saturday.

 

He knows that when he looked over at Pete, he'd gotten that look, the look that says you're so fucking on point and I love you so fucking much.

 

And he knows that at some point, he jumped off the stage like the fucking idiot that he is, nose-dived into the crowd, and he knows there was a sharp pain on the side of his head, and then everything went black.

 

 

 

He wakes up with his cheek pressed against something warm and soft, and the smell of bodyspray and unwashed clothing, and a hand carding gently through his hair. He cracks his eyes open and sees nothing but black fabric and white decal paint, and he knows before he even opens his mouth.

 

"Panda?" His voice is mostly a dull croak, and scratches over his throat as he speaks, but he gets the word out, somehow. Pete shifts, picks himself up on one shoulder and lets Joe's head rest on his bicep while his fingers continue stroking through his hair. He sees Pete's face, finally, soft, and slack, but tight around the eyes, like he's worried, and his voice doesn't exactly sound well-used either.

 

"Hey, Duck Hunt." He whispers, and Joe's satisfied in the knowledge that Pete's voice is just as much, if not more wrecked than his as he nudges their noses together. "How you feeling?" Joe scrunches up his own and halfheartedly tries to press the rest of his face into Pete's side.

 

"Head hurts." Pete nods slowly and turns a little bit, pulling Joe closer to cradle him against his chest.

 

"You got hit pretty hard." He murmurs, his lips ghosting over Joe's forehead, and Joe swallows thickly. "Scared me a little bit back there."

 

"S'okay, though, right?" He asks, slurring just enough that he has to note that he's already falling asleep.

 

"Yeah, baby, it's okay." It's softspoken and reassuring and everything that Joe usually is for Pete, but in reverse, and it's honestly the most comforting thing Joe's ever experienced.

 

"Mmkay. 'Re you gonna be here when I wake up?" Joe's fully aware that his voice is getting progressively less and less coherent. Pete chuckles, just slightly, and ducks his head, catching Joe's lips with his own, just for a second.

 

"Yeah, baby, I'll be here." He breathes, and Joe presses his nose into Pete's sternum, letting his eyes slide closed.

 

 

 

Sure enough, when he wakes up, Pete's there, snoring quietly and drooling into the pillow.

 

 

Joe can't help but smile.

 

-0-

 

They pop a tire, halfway through Texas, and the roads are like sheets of fucking ice, and when Joe goes to get out and help Andy put the donut on, Pete stops him.

"He's got it." He says firmly, with his eyes weirdly certain, and Joe raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but--" The rest of his statement is muffled in Pete's shirt when he's dragged down into a noogie, to which he responds by elbowing Pete in the ribs while Patrick rolls his eyes and does the same.

“You’re an idiot.” He tells Pete, and Pete grins, wide, and tickles under Patrick’s chin.

“Your idiot.” He purrs, and Joe pokes his side.

“ _My_ idiot.” He mutters, and Pete giggles and leans down, kisses the top of his head. 

"I'll always come home to you in the end, baby."

 

Patrick rolls his eyes, again, and gets out, probably so he can molest Andy while he tries to change the tire.

 

Joe doesn’t really think about how weird it is that Pete wouldn’t want him to get out.

 

 

He also doesn't think about it when they play a show in Milwaukee, and afterward instead of going to the party that's raging in the basement of the shitty bar they're in, which Andy and Patrick are sort of at, considering when they left Patrick was pinned to the wall with Andy's lips latched onto his neck, Pete pulls him into the back of the van and licks his way down into Joe's pants, his fingers dancing over every inch of him he can reach, and jesus fuck how can he think about anything else when Pete's doing that with his mouth?

When it's done, and they both collapse against Andy's sleeping bag, tired, and fucked-out, and Pete wraps one arm securely around Joe's waist, pillowing his head on his chest.

"I'm not getting up, again, tonight, am I?" Joe asks, and Pete doesn't respond, just presses a soft kiss to his bicep and snuggles closer.

Joe can pretty much live with that.

 

-0-

 

The wind is fucking whistling outside and the motel feels small, and uncomfortable, and suffocating. The weather report said the winds could go up to 70 tonight and Joe is acutely and painfully aware that he can't leave this room. Pete and Patrick went out exactly forty three minutes ago to find food, but Joe's not a fan of storms, and the thought of going outside is basically tantamount to suicide.

At least they're not in the van. 

He watches the snow whip past the window with wide eyes, until Andy wraps an arm around his waist, and tugs him up, dragging him over to the bed, and flicking on the TV. It's a little staticky until Andy futzes with it, and gets on a station that's showing some rerun of an old Friends episode. 

 

He doesn't say anything as he sits back down next to Joe on the left bed, with their shoulders pressed together and their ankles linked, and it's always like this, with Andy. Always quiet, and calm, even though there's the storm of the fucking century whipping past their windows, and Joe latches onto it, the feeling of warmth and steadiness that Andy emanates. 

 

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's woken up by Pete's cold nose pressing into the back of his neck. They're alone in the bed, Andy and Patrick assumedly having decided to occupy the other one, and Pete's crawled under the covers, pressing up against Joe and wrapping an arm around his waist. 

 

Joe reaches back and curls his fingers in Pete's slightly damp hair, keeping him there, and Pete squeezes, gently. 

"Yer' 'kay?" He mumbles through the haze of sleep, and feels more than hears Pete's chuckle. 

"We're fine, baby. Go back to sleep."

 

Joe does, warm, and safe. 

 

 

-0-

 

The accident is the thing that really shifts the balance.

 

Because Joe's not in the death-seats, or even sitting up, when they crash, he's laying in the back, with his head pillowed on Patrick's thigh while he reads what has to be the tenth fucking Hemmingway book that Pete's given him in the past month or so.

 

And yeah, the van jerks, and his head snaps forward, and maybe some glass hits his cheek, but it's not bad. Pete's the one with the fucking fucked up ankle.

 

And yet, as soon as they're out of the diner and on the Greyhound taking them out east, Pete latches onto Joe like a fucking crustacean, attaches himself to Joe's side and refuses to let go for the next five hours, and Joe just thanks whatever gods there are that he peed before they left. Patrick shoots him a vaguely sympathetic look over Andy's head where he's pillowed against his chest, already completely comatose, but neither of them speaks.

 

And Pete's asleep long before they get a chance to be alone, so, of course, Joe can't ask him about it.

 

But this is definitely going to need to get talked about.

 

 

They stumble into the hotel in New York, exhausted and sore and so, so very done, and Joe collapses into bed without a second though because fuck today, just fuck it. He doesn't remember that he's got anything to say to Pete until there's a cold nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and a hand curled tight around his hip, and he wants to just go to sleep so fucking badly, but he forces himself to push Pete off him and roll over to face him.

 

And immediately regrets it, because Pete's eyes are wide and searching and he looks so fucking heartbroken you'd think Joe just killed his fucking dog, but Joe's not going to stop until he gets some fucking answers, puppy-eyes be damned.

 

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Pete blinks several times, and then shakes his head.

"Nothing?" Joe narrows his eyes and punches Pete none-too-gently in the arm.

"Talk to me, asshole." He growls, and sits up, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "You're acting...weird." Pete looks at him for a long moment, and shifts, just a little, just enough to make himself small, and fuck, he knew this would be bad, but not that bad.

 

Pete's just silent and still for a while, staring at the comforter under Joe's knee, and Joe waits, because he has to, because sometimes Pete needs this, needs time to make all his thoughts come together because there's too many of them and they've stopped making sense and he can't think.

Eventually, Pete looks up, eyes trained on Joe's shoulder, and says;

"You get hurt a lot." It's soft, and quiet, and so fucking Pete it hurts, and Joe has to shake his head because--what?

"Yeah, we all do, we're in a band, Pete, I don't--"

"I don't…want that." He's struggling with his words, and Joe knows he should probably cut Pete some slack, but what the fuck?

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Pete swallows, hard, and looks down again, curling just a little farther into himself, but Joe won't stop, and maybe his voice is a little harsher than he wants it to be, but fuck it. "What I do isn't about what you want, Pete, jesus christ."

"I don't--you're not--" He breaks off and Joe can see his eyes widening just a little, just enough that he knows it's hard, right now. Sometimes the words just don't come out, and generally it's when they're fighting, if it happens at all, and Joe's used to it, he can accommodate it, but this is ridiculous.

"Pete, I'm fine." He growls, and Pete's head shoots up, his eyes hard.

"Yeah, but what about when you're not?" Joe blinks, and Pete keeps going. "What about when you don't get help fast enough for a tetanus shot? Or when Andy's not there to help you when five fucking guys jump you?" Joe opens his mouth to speak, but Pete doesn't stop. "What about when you jump into the crowd and hit your head and…and you don't wake up?" His voice is wavering, now, and Joe wants to reach out and grab him and hold him as close as he fucking can, but he can't bring himself to move.

There are tears in Pete's eyes, streaking down his cheeks, and he shakes his head and bends down, curling his fingers into his hair.

"You're fucking…special, Duck Hunt." Pete mumbles, sniffing softly. "You're fucking special, and you're…fucking…mine, and I can't…" He has to stop for a second, and Joe wills himself forward, leaning closer because Pete's whispering, now, barely even audible. "I can't lose you. I won't." The last word comes out as a strangled sob, and Pete rubs his hands over his face, and shakes his head again, and then goes silent, trying ineffectually to wipe the wetness from his cheeks.

"Pete." Joe breathes, and Pete just presses his head between his knees, and tenses his shoulders like he's waiting for a fight. If he's hoping for one, he's going to be sorely disappointed. "Pete, baby, come here." He reaches out slowly, and gently slides his hands over Pete's so he can pull him close. Pete goes smoothly, melting into Joe seamlessly as Joe wraps his arms around his shoulders, cradling Pete against his chest while he presses his lips to the top of his head. He has to close his eyes, because, honestly, he doesn't cry often, but right now they're definitely stinging.

"I'm here." He murmurs into Pete's hair, stroking his fingers over his temple and trying to ignore the way his chest is clenching. "I'm here, I'm right here." Joe pulls back carefully, cradling Pete's face in both hands, and shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere." Pete sucks in a harsh breath, and surges up, locking their lips together and Joe kisses back just as hard, groaning when Pete's fingers slide up under the hem of his shirt, ghosting over his sides while he pushes it up until Joe has to break away to take it off.

And yeah, maybe sex wasn't where he'd imagined this conversation going, but he's definitely not complaining as Pete crawls forward until he lies back and slides down to suck a mark into his collarbone, scraping over the skin with his teeth while his hands palm Joe's hips, pinning him to the bed.

Pete moves back up and catches Joe's mouth with his own, fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair, and Joe wraps his legs tightly around Pete's hips, holding him by the sides of his neck and squeezing when Pete gasps against his lips;

"I love you." Joe kisses him again, lets Pete shift to bury his face in the crook of his neck. "I love you so fucking much."

"I'm here." He whispers, and strokes the back of Pete's head, flipping them over and straddling him with a level of ease he's not sure when he achieved. "I'm here."

 

It’s not the last time he has to say it, that night.

 

-0-

 

Things change, but in the same vein, they don’t.

  
  


Everything’s fine for a few weeks, until Joe twirls his guitar around himself and hits himself in the head, splits his skin open and needs five stitches.

 

But he crawls into Pete’s lap in the waiting room and kisses his forehead, loops his arms around Pete’s neck to remind him that he’s there, and Pete looks a little less scared.

 

Plus he kind of makes up for it when he accidentally lobs his Strat across the stage and does the same to Pete three weeks later.

 

And there are nights when Pete wakes up sweating, pulls Joe as close as he can and buries his face in his hair because the nightmares about losing him felt too real to handle.

 

But Joe kisses his cheeks and holds him close and it’s mostly okay.

 

-0-

 

Years later, they’re lying in the bed in the back of their bus, and Pete strokes his fingertips over the scar on Joe’s forehead, small, barely even noticeable to anyone else.

 

“You’re still an idiot.” He mumbles, and Joe grins.

 

“Your idiot.”

  
Pete glares, and kisses him. 

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is fiction, based on characterizations of real people. i don't own any of this, that would be slavery. reviews are love. be nice.


End file.
